


Fade to black [roll credits]

by Racethewind_10



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, This is how Warehouse ends, fuck season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:38:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Racethewind_10/pseuds/Racethewind_10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I am,” Helena answers Myka's unspoken query. “Because someone very wise once told me that this," her gesture takes in the B & B and Myka herself, "is who I am." And then, "I’m finished walking away from my truth."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fade to black [roll credits]

**Author's Note:**

> There is no season 5. Originally posted at ff.net and now updated, this was my take on how Warehouse should have ended. 
> 
> Thank you: To Typey, who is the most awesome beta a psycho abuser of run on sentences and metaphors like me could ever hope for.

Gravel crunches under the tires of a black, unmarked SUV as it rolls to a gentle stop in front of an inviting, brightly painted house with a sign that still proudly proclaims " _Leena's Bed & Breakfast_." Turning the key in the ignition, the driver sits motionless for a moment, only the soft ticking of the cooling engine accompanying her thoughts as she stares out the windshield at her destination. Her features betray nothing of her emotional state, composed and cool, but the outward calm is deceptive. The driver's thoughts are a chaotic jumble, shot through with conflicting emotions and memories of this place and the people inside. And yet underlying the chaos, beneath the slight tremor in her hands and the tightness of her chest is a pull. Subtle as gravity, it tugs her relentlessly until she can no longer resist it, the effect as sure and terrifying as freefall.

Even admitting she’s being a coward to keep sitting here, the minutes continue to tick by for far too long before the driver manages the simple task of unlocking the door and stepping outside. Elegant, knee high black boots barely disturb the gravel as the whip-thin woman disembarks, keying the electronic door lock for the vehicle with ease. No one will disturb it here but the technology of this time had always been the easiest aspect of the 21st century for H.G. Wells to adjust to and there’s something comforting in the familiar function of electricity.

The breeze tugging at her hair is cold enough to bite, forcing Helena to pull her jacket tighter around her slender frame, fingers brushing the ever-present locket at her neck. The action no longer carries with it the sharp surge of grief and guilt it used to but there is an ache that will never fade. The longing remains, the empty ache in her chest where a daughter's love should be is still empty, but she no longer burns with rage. Gone is the anger and the self-loathing and the doubt that for so long crept like a poison through her blood, tainting each struggling beat of her heart.

Helena quirks her lips. Overdone metaphors are a sure sign that she’s avoiding the task ahead.

With a mental shake, Helena takes a step away from her car. Then another. And another. Such an easy thing walking, the biomechanics of the human body so beautifully designed for efficiency. It would be a beautiful thing but for the fact she’s looking over the edge of an unknown future, teetering on a knife’s edge between joy and terror and the door she rapidly approaches holds the answer to which will be her fate. In the light of uncertainty and hope, it’s easy to curse the fluid way her strides close the distance between the car and the front porch.

Autumn’s grip on South Dakota is firm these days and where the wind teases the trees surrounding the B & B the leaves glow like flames, deep oranges and bright reds and soft golds. Behind Helena the late afternoon sun spills lazily across the browning lawn. Helena sees none of it. Her attention is consumed by the simple wooden door with its brass handle and locks. Two steps up, her boots thudding loudly on the wood porch. A slender finger presses the buzzer.

Heartbeat loud in her ears, Helena waits.

The muffled sound of the doorbell is just audible on the other side of the door, followed by equally distorted voices and footsteps approaching. Helena’s heart speeds up but any last attempt to steel herself is taken away as the door opens and she finds herself staring at a face she has worked so hard to memorize, and forget, and remember again.

Eyes – green with gold flecks, she remembers that – widen in surprise. Messy coffee-colored curls spill over slender shoulders clad in a faded grey sweatshirt that read YALE in cracked letters. On either side of the mantle, both women stand frozen.

Something, some nameless dread that remained like a shard of ice in her heart finally melts as Helena stares at Myka, real and so much healthier than Helena last saw her. The sterile chill of hospitals and the beeping of monitors fades away at long last, finally relegated to the past where Helena is slowly,  _painfully_  learning to leave it.

She’s here to embrace the future.

"Helena," her name on Myka's lips is a question and a plea and it sounds so _good._ Helena’s smile in response is as impossible to stop as her own heartbeat. Relief rushes through her, giddy and light. Helena knows she probably looks manic but she can’t help it. Time and distance haven’t robbed her of the knowledge of their silent language – she can still see the hope and confusion and uncertainty written in Myka's expression as vividly as if inked on parchment, the things written there far more complex than mere words could encompass and far more beautiful.

"Hello, Myka," she responds, finding her voice at last.

"You're here," Myka replies awkwardly, wincing slightly. Helena, however, is sympathetic. She’s spent too long imagining this moment not to understand the doubt that it’s really here and not just another dream that will vanish like vapor as soon as she opens her eyes.

Still on the porch though, Helena is aware that her position might still be tenuous. She’ll beg forgiveness if she has to, down on her knees for as long as it takes, but the prospect of Myka’s anger makes her weak and afraid in ways she thought carved out of her with her daughter’s death. She has hope again, and it terrifies her because she’s well aware she probably doesn’t deserve it, that the door she’s standing in front of should be shut and barred against her.

She does her best not to fidget, settles for running a hand through her hair, the one nervous habit she could never be rid of.

"I am,” Helena answers Myka's unspoken query. “Because someone very wise once told me that this," her gesture takes in the B & B and Myka herself, "is who I am." And then, "I’m finished walking away from my truth."

The declaration – for there’s no doubt that it is one – hangs in the charged air between them, not a barrier any longer but hopefully a bridge, ready to be crossed. And in the end they move together into each other's arms, the distance that seemed so great traversed at last with ease.

Despite the length of the journey to bring them to this moment, true physical contact has always been such a rarity that Helena nearly gasps at the feel of Myka's slender arms holding her tightly, her body warm through the soft fabric of her sweatshirt. So many of their moments, of their meetings and goodbyes, were spent separated by cruel inches or marked only by the desperate grip of hands with a proximity or touch far too insubstantial to keep them in the same place for long enough, before fate pulled them apart yet again

But this,

This is _everything._

Helena's fingers dig at Myka's shoulders as she let herself sink into the other woman's embrace. It feels permanent. Like home, like an ending, and perhaps like a beginning. And for the first time in a long time, Helena’s fear quiet. There’s no lie to hide, no motives to justify, no dangers looming, demanding the sacrifice of happiness or life. There are no Regents, no holograms, no astrolabes, no illness. Emily Lake has been laid to rest.

For the first time in all their history no barriers stand between them and they together simply as themselves.

If it were possible never to move, Helena thinks she would be quite happy spending the rest of her life right here, her face pressed into the crook of Myka’s neck, soft hair tickling Helena’s cheek and Myka’s slow breathing pressing their breasts together.

Such flights of fancy were beyond even her, however, and soon enough a commotion somewhere in the B & B suddenly resolves itself into Claudia pelting headlong toward the two women, Pete close behind and Steve following at a somewhat more decorous pace. Helena and Myka part just in time for Helena to be nearly tackled by Claudia and hugged fiercely. She laughs as Claudia nearly lifts her off the ground and hugs back as hard as she can. Pete _does_ lift her off the ground, spinning her around and pulling her rather unceremoniously inside. Only when both Helena and Myka threaten serious bodily harm does he put her down, but Helena's eyes sparkle and Myka's smile is soft. She still punches Pete in the arm though.

Steve's greeting is much more reserved but no less glad and Helena hugs him without reservation.

Pete tries to introduce the Dr. Cho when she joins the group but Helena shakes her head. "Dr. Cho and I are acquainted," she says simple, knowing Abigail would never reveal that without permission.

A glance toward Myka receives a look of gentle understanding and quiet pride, a tiny nod all Myka needs to tell Helena of her acceptance, that she knows this is only beginning and there is still so much to say. They will probably both talk to Abigail in the future, but for now, this is enough. For once, the words that need to be spoken can wait.

They have time now.

The companionable silence is interrupted by a very irritated voice and familiar heavy tread as Artie appears around the corner.

"Oh H.G., good, you're here. Now if the  _rest_ of you can stop acting like children we have a ping in Dallas." And with no further fanfare Artie – as perpetually rumpled as Helena remembers – turns back to the kitchen, waving a stack of file folders for emphasis.

Much good-natured whining follows after him as Pete, Steve and Claudia traipse in his wake. Abigail lingers only long enough to give Helena a swift, gentle hug and offer a "welcome home," before walking away, leaving the two women alone again for a moment.

"It's good to be home," Helena says softly, holding Myka's gaze and reaching out to carefully entwine their fingers.

"Yeah," Myka smiles, softly at first but gaining strength until she’s beaming. "It is."

Their hands stay linked as together the two turn and walk through the B & B to join the others at the table where is already muttering they shouldn't make a habit of being late. Claudia hits him with a file folder and Pete uses the distraction as an opportunity to steal a cookie from Abigail. Who punches his shoulder.

Two chairs are left empty, side by side, just waiting for the last two members of the family and Helena and Myka take them without hesitation, their hands remaining clasped under the table as Artie finally manages to start the briefing.

[Camera pans back, away from table, moves outside the B & B. Fade to black]

THE END.

 


End file.
